Legendary

by Amelia Kibbie

  “No, you’re going to ask Rosie out, and that’s final,” one of them declared as James slunk down the hallway.

  “I heard she’s pretty fresh,” another said, and they guffawed again. “You’ll get a return on your investment like.”

  “What’s taking you so long?” another berated his friend, an arm around his neck in a friendly choking gesture. “What are you, some kinda queerie?”

  “If anyone’s a damn queer, it’s you,” his friend fired back. More rough laughter.

  At the toilets, a mother stood by the half-open door as her son combed his hair in the mirror. As James ducked into another toilet, she snarled at the boy, “Hurry up, will you? Acting like a sissy poof — what would your father say?”

  James could cleary imagine the brokenhearted look in the boy’s eyes as he gazed into the mirror. He knew, because he’d seen his own so many times. He put his hands on either side of the filthy metal train sink and pressed his head against the mirror, ragged breaths tearing into his chest as his face burned.

  They were nearly to Lincoln station before James was able to compose himself and return to the cabin. As usual, Mrs. Wylit had drawn the curtains on the small windows leading into the hall. She was asleep on Lance’s shoulder, and Lance himself nodded, his eyes half-closed. James slid into the seat next to Arthur, who looked at him quizzically as he pulled Arthur’s hand off of his knee and clutched it in both of his own.

  “What is it?” Arthur saw James' bloodshot eyes and the angry flush that blossomed on his cheeks.

  James' mouth was pressed into a thin white line. Finally, he said, “How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world.”

  “What happened?” Arthur half-rose from his seat, and lifted his free hand as if to ask, who needs to be punched?

  James kept hold of his other hand and pulled him back into the seat. “Nothing like that. Only things you can’t protect me from.”

  “Tell me.” Arthur’s green eyes were earnest, angry, and expectant beneath his thick black brows.

  James gifted him a sad smile, and reached up to brush an errant ebony curl from his forehead. “We should wake them. It’s our stop.”

  Lance jerked awake at James' gentle touch, but Mrs. Wylit needed to be hauled to her feet. She’d had a “dry throat” on the journey. As Arthur lifted her by the arms to steady her, the seam in the armpit of her blouse gave way. “I can fix it,” James promised. “Get her bag, Lance.”

  Together, they managed the baggage, including Mrs. Wylit. James sat with her sagged against him on a bench while Arthur and Lance looked at the bus schedule. Though he always took a moment, forced himself to admire anything beautiful that his eyes fell upon, James had no patience for the 1850s Tudor revival facade of the station, done in stately brick. He put his arm around Mrs. Wylit and hugged her close like an overboard sailor clutching a life preserver. A life preserver that stank of sweat and whiskey and perfume ten years old.

  Mrs. Wylit knew. She had to know. And yet she’d come all this way in a pathetic attempt to take care of them, to see them through the journey, determined to try to help even though she was far more of a hindrance than an asset. But she knew who he was, who Arthur was, perhaps even who Lance was, and she stuck by them, left the cave-like cluttered flat she haunted to come with them. Passengers streamed out of the station, and swirled in eddys around their bench like the tide around a rock. There went the football hooligans, and the mother, dragging her son along behind her with an angry hand.

  Mrs. Wylit sat up, burped, and turned to the side to vomit a brown stream flaked with what might have been a biscuit. “Maggie,” she muttered — or, at least, that was what it sounded like — and heaved again. James pulled her wild hair back away from her face, and when she finished, mopped her mouth with her handkerchief.

  “What’s wrong with you, Vi?” He rocked her gently in his arms. “Tell me why you do this to yourself.”

  “Maggie,” she whispered again.

  At that moment, Lance and Arthur returned. “It’s close enough to walk.” Lance held up the black address book.

  “I don’t think Vi’s up to walking,” James said, then warned Arthur, “Mind the sick.”

  “Oof.” Arthur stopped his huge foot in time and avoided the puddle.

  “Let’s go.” Mrs. Wylit stood up, so fast that she pitched forward into Arthur’s arms. He steadied her, and she opened her bleary eyes. Vi pushed her wild curls back again with an oddly dignified gesture and held out her hand. Lance gave her the bag, and she shouldered it. Then she crooked her arm out to him, and he took it. Leaning into Lance like a crumbling watchtower, she shuffled down the street. Arthur and James followed.

  “She’s a tough bird.” James shook his head.

  “Speaking of birds,” Arthur said, “Always knew she ate like one. Never realized just how little it really was.”

  “She’s sick, Arthur.” James shifted his suitcase to the other hand. “Now that she’s with us all the time I see it.”

  Arthur nodded, but did not speak. There was nothing more to say, James thought, at least not now. One thing they did know about Mrs. Wylit was that she had no relatives. “No kin to call my own. Not anymore,” she had told them on more than one occasion, the liquor giving her declaration the maudlin flair of a radio drama. So, there was no one to tell, to send her to, to help her.

  None but us, James thought, and winced as Mrs. Wylit stumbled over a crack in the pavement, though Lance was there to catch her.

  Soon enough, they found themselves standing in front of the arched door of a small brick row house about a mile from the train station. The cardboard sign in the upper right window said ROOMS TO LET.

  Arthur’s stomach rumbled. James’ echoed in solidarity. He hoped Mr. Blanchard would be as accommodating as Mrs. Galhad. It was nearly teatime anyway.

  The person who stomped to the door after they’d had to ring the bell several times was, at first glance, definitely not William Blanchard. He was far too young, perhaps ten years older than Arthur and James, although the years had not been kind. They revealed themselves in his thinning mud brown hair and quivering tum. Mr. Conner had one as well, which he affectionately called his “pony keg.” While the tummy lump was fatherly and endearing on a man of Mr. Conner’s age, it seemed unhealthy when paired with this fellow’s youthful arms and sallow skin. He wore a dirty undershirt and pajama trousers.

  “Keep your knickers on,” he snapped, and yanked the door open wider. “Lookin’ for a room? It’s fifteen quid a month, no private bathrooms.” He fixed his watery brown eyes on Mrs. Wylit. The whites were threaded through with blood. “No women.” He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “Christ, especially her. She looks pissed.”

  “We just had a very long train ride,” James explained as Lance drew Mrs. Wylit back from the door out onto the sidewalk again.

  The man at the door took a toothpick from behind his ear and made as if to say something rude. Arthur stepped forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with James, which let his height speak for itself.

  “Don’t need a room,” Arthur rumbled in his deep bass. “We’re looking for someone.”

  “Does a Mr. William Blanchard live here?” James asked.

  The man stared at him, and gnawed the toothpick.

  “He’d be in his seventies.” James choked back a nervous cough. “Military man from the Great War.”

  “I know of him.” The man used his large wet tongue to migrate the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “What’s it to you?”

  “We’re trying to find him.” James shifted uncomfortably to his other foot.

  “Well, that’s bloody obvious, innit?” The man removed the toothpick from his mouth and stuck it behind his ear again. “You his relatives? Old codger owes me back rent.”

  “He was friends with my granddad,” Lance tried as he adjusted Mrs. Wylit’s weight against his hip. “They were in the war together.”

  The
man spit at their feet. “Well, ain’t that a sweet little story.”

  “Do you know where he is?” Arthur inched forward again.

  “You may want to step back, boy.” The man unfolded his arms and drew himself up to his unimpressive height. “The bigger they are, the harder they fall, innit what they say?”

  “We’re not looking for trouble.”

  “Could have fooled me.” The man spat again. His body odor tingled in James’ nose, and he winced at its bitter potency. “Say I do know where he is. What’s it worth to you?”

  “We have some... money.” James nudged Arthur, who dug into his coat pocket for his wallet.

  “Unless you want to pay me his three months back rent, don’t bother.” The toothpick went back into the man’s snaggle-toothed mouth.

  “Then, what can we offer you?” James guided Arthur back with one hand and inched forward himself, eyes open wide and innocent. “Please, there must be something you want. We desperately need to find Mr. Blanchard. It’s a matter of a man’s dying wish.”

  The man laughed, quietly at first, and then with a loud, shrill, mean openness. “Oh, I suppose, if you’re that desperate, and it’s a matter of the heart, well, wouldn’t I be cruel if I didn’t tell you.” He broke to laugh again, a donkey yelp. “All right, if you want to know what happened to old Blanchard, I do have something you can do for me. Get me what I want, and I’ll tell you everything.”

  “Yes,” James agreed. They were getting somewhere.

  The man laughed again, hard enough this time that he had to bend down and slap his knee.

  “What d’you want?” Arthur pushed against James' warning elbow.

  “I want my damned football cup, that’s what I want.” The man ripped the toothpick out of his mouth and threw it at their feet, next to his glob of spittle. “My mates and I won a tournament in upper school and I kept the cup. Well, times was hard, you know how it goes — and I had to hock it, didn't I? Well, the arsehole who bought it’s Mr. King — his daughter’s some slag I went with for a time — and he keeps it behind his bar to use as goddamned ashtray. That’s right, down at the Hawk and Chick. He does it just to mock me, to mock my mates, y’see. Get the cup back from him. Bring it here and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

  “How are we supposed to do that?” James wondered.

  “If I knew how to do it, I wouldn’t be asking some Frankenstein and his pet poof for help, now would I?” He moved to slam the door.

  Arthur’s hand shot out and caught it, massive fingers splayed out over the weathered wood. “Promise,” he growled. “If we get the cup, promise you’ll tell us about Mr. Blanchard.”

  “You have my word, Frankenstein. Now get your damn hand off my door.”

  Arthur drew his limb back, and the door slammed.

  “It’s Frankenstein's monster, you twit,” James grumbled under his breath as they turned to go.

  Lance patted his shoulder reassuringly with the free hand that wasn’t supporting Mrs. Wylit. “And Arthur’s obviously your pet, not the other way round.”

  Chapter 17

  After a bit of asking, they managed to find the Hawk and Chick, a tiny pub squeezed between a wireless repair shop and a closed-up bakery. It was a brick blight with filthy windows. Inside was cramped and strange — the nook of a bar stood off to the right, tucked against the far corner. It was sectioned off from the rest of the pub by a half-wall that ran almost to the doorway they had crowded into. The tables and chairs and darts board were crammed on the other side of the partition. There were only two stools at the bar itself, and one of them was broken, laying on its side like a wounded warrior.

  The walls were lined with built-in shelves, which suggested the little space had been something else before, a shop perhaps — but instead of tearing them out, the owner had filled them with things. Objects lined every available space: books, taxidermy, dusty fake plants and flowers, and decorative plates and beer steins as well. However, fish and fishing dominated over all else; tacked to the wall were old lures, poles, baskets, nets, and hats, as well as some trophy bass and other species James couldn’t identify. A shapeless, beige man and his equally drab female companion lounged at one of the tables staring silently at their pints.

  Behind the bar, sitting on a stool, was an old man in a green wool sweater vest and a brown cap. He had a lush white beard kept trimmed close to his jaw. “Evenin’,” he greeted, and thumbed up the bill of his brown cap. As they moved inside, he extinguished his cigar stub into a small golden trophy cup that sat among the whisky bottles on the shelf behind him.

  “There it is,” Lance mouthed at James, and jerked his head in the direction of the football cup. Aloud, he said, “Why don’t you all get a table? Drinks are on me, mates.” He winked.

  James selected a table as far away from the dour-looking regulars as possible, in the back near the dartboard. Arthur lowered Mrs. Wylit into a chair and propped her against the shelf behind her, which rattled the collection of dusty porcelain figurines of fishermen and fisher boys.

  “Surprised he didn’t call the place Fish and Tadpole or the like.” Arthur sank himself into a chair in increments. James listened to the groans and pops of the old wood in hopes it would hold Arthur’s weight.

  “He didn’t seem like a... well, he didn’t seem grumpy.” James rested his suitcase beneath his feet. “Lance is so charming. I’m sure he’ll have the cup back in a heartbeat.”

  Mrs. Wylit’s back stiffened, and her eyes shot open. “Charm isn’t everything, young man,” she scolded as she rubbed her temples and forehead. “They say Hitler was charming.”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake, Vi,” James hissed as the drab couple shot questioning glances their way. “Are you really comparing him to Hitler?”

  “I’m only... saying,” she grumbled, and shoved her hand into her bag to rifle through for her flask. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” she snapped at Arthur.

  “No, no, no.” Arthur plucked the flask out of her fingers when she came up with it. “Can’t believe there’s anything still in there.”

  “You’ve got a pint coming.” James pulled a sleeve of biscuits from his suitcase. “Please eat something.”

  Mrs. Wylit clawed one into her mouth. “I’m watching you.” Crumbs tumbled from between her chapped lips.

  “Hate it when she stops making sense,” Arthur rumbled, as if Mrs. Wylit wasn’t sitting right next to him. “She’s nutters when she drinks.”

  James did not mention aloud the predictions she made, and how they often came true. It was easier, now, in this place, with the problem presented before them, to ignore it. But in his mind he ran through the catalogue of her strangely accurate rants. By the look on Arthur’s face, James thought, he was thinking the same thing.

  Lance emerged from the partition with a tray of pints. These he brought to the table and passed out to each of them. He sat down with a weary sigh.

  “Oh dear,” said James.

  “I’ll say.” Mrs. Wylit dragged her pint to her mouth and gulped like an animal at a trough.

  “He’s not a bad chap, our Mr. King.” Lance sipped his own bitters. “But I’ll be damned, he does not want to give up that cup! I’ve explained everything to him, the whole predicament. Hates the landlord we spoke to – named Tom by the way – because of something that happened with his daughter. He told me he’ll be putting out his cigars in that cup until the day he dies. He suggested that Arthur beat the information out of Tom, which would no doubt delight Mr. King as well.” He sighed again. “I put it on thick, lads. I offered him money, too — nothing worked. He told me to wish you all a good night and best of luck. He’s happy to serve us here in the pub, but that’s the end of it.”

  “Charm isn’t everything,” Mrs. Wylit said down into her pint glass, and then punctuated it with a burp.

  “I gave it my best go.” Lance crossed his arms, a sour, disappointed pout to his full lips.

  “‘Spose it’s my turn then.” Arth
ur stood, nearly scraping his dark curls against a trophy swordfish’s blade.

  “Arthur, you’re not going to—”

  “Don’t worry.” Arthur went around the partition, and each step rattled the chotchkies on the walls.

  However, it was only a few minutes before he returned, eyes wide and blinking in bewilderment. “Don’t know what that Tom did to his daughter,” he said, “but that cup...” He shook his head again.

  Mrs. Wylit shoved back her chair and swayed to her feet. She lit a cigarette and blew the smoke to the ceiling. “Never send a man to do a woman’s work.” She turned and stumbled up to the bar, using the backs of chairs for support as she went.

  “Oh no, no, no,” James groaned, turning to his beer for support. “This is our worst idea yet. Vi, come back—”

  It was too late. She disappeared around the partition and did not emerge for quite some time.

  “Maybe she’s getting somewhere,” Lance suggested with a hopeful shrug.

  “More like getting into trouble.” As the last word left James' mouth, Mrs. Wylit rounded the corner. Her steps were steadier, and she had a cup of water in one hand and a mug of tea in the other, complete with a lemon slice. She sank into her squeaking chair and set the other beverages to the side, reaching first to drain her pint. “He said if I drank these, he’d consider it,” she said, “but I don’t think he will. Stubborn as a bull. I offered him anything and everything.” She gulped the tea and winced. “And I mean everything. Apparently he’s happily married, as if such a thing existed.”

  The drab couple had had enough and fled for the door after tossing a few coins on the table.

  “Vi, you didn’t,” James squealed in a barely-concealed stage whisper. “You didn’t, did you?”

  “I’m only saying.” She drained the tea and set the cup back on the table with a clang. “There it is. I’d do that if it means helping you ungrateful cabbages.”